


Name of the Game

by Semebay



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Hockey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-25
Updated: 2012-10-25
Packaged: 2017-11-17 00:28:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semebay/pseuds/Semebay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>France had never realized how active Canada really was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Name of the Game

**Author's Note:**

> Original Publication Date: May 9, 2010

 

France had never realized how active Canada really was.

 

When not in a suit, the boy wore oversized sweaters and pants, often making the older nation wonder if he was hiding something. He noticed a large bandage on his wrist once, but never pointed it out. It felt wrong, as though he were prying and making something out of nothing. But the curiosity remained, especially when he started to see bruises. He never pointed it out, even when he dragged his fingers along Canada's (clothed) back during one of the meetings, eliciting a sound of surprise and a pained flinch. He had cast a glance at America when England started to shout, but the brother hadn't even noticed his glance (or he hid his involvement in whatever had happened to Canada).

 

Either way, France's curiosity had been snatched, and he _had_ to know who was leaving the bruises.

 

He followed Canada, once, after the meeting in Toronto. The younger nation had left the meeting almost eagerly, setting off for some unknown location at a brisk place. He had been easy to follow, not bothering to pretend to go elsewhere, and then he disappeared into a building with large glass doors. France had followed him inside, but then he had lost him in the halls. He frowned and turned back, retraced his steps, and took a wrong turn so that he was standing above a large arena covered in ice. He wondered if there would be some skaters going out to practice, and was tempted to sit back and watch when something caught his eye. He turned his head, and was greeted by the sight of a large burly man in a blue shirt, gliding out onto the ice with a large stick in his hand. He remembered something of a sport called _hockey_ , but thought nothing of it. Surely Canada wouldn't-

 

But he was. The nation was gliding out onto the ice in one of his oversized maple-leaf sweaters, a grin on his face and a stick in his hand as he called out to one of the others that were joining him. France took a seat in one of the uncomfortable (and probably bacteria-ridden) chairs, and settled in to see what Canada was going to do (he also noticed that of the few players without helmets, Canada was one of them. A worrisome thing, indeed).

 

There seemed to be no order to the chaos that broke out on the ice below. The players had lined up against each other, laughing and joking until one had dropped the puck. Then they were ramming each other and fleeing, trying not to be caught by the others as they spirited the puck down the length of the arena and tried to keep the other team from grabbing the tiny black disk. France frowned at the display, and he cringed when Canada dove at another player and missed, crashing into the wall that lined the arena before jerking away and pursuing once more. Once, France was sure that Canada saw him, but he didn't know because at that exact moment, another player had slammed into the boy's back and knocked him against the ice. Canada rose with a bloody nose, and then there were gloves and sticks flying as Canada _lunged_ at the other, knocking him back and starting a fight while his team mates stopped to watch.

 

France watched in morbid fascination as the players fought, unclothing one another viciously and tearing jerseys. After a minute, another player finally _did_ step in, and then those that had been fighting simply nodded at each other and moved off. Canada grabbed his gloves and the stick he had broken, and then he _did_ look up at the stands. He waved, and France waved back.

 

Then he was playing again.

 

Later, France would ask him why he bothered to play such a violent game, why he would get hurt over a stick and a puck. And Canada would tell him that it was simply the nature of the game. He enjoyed it, and he was good at it (and America begrudgingly agreed with that, through swollen lip that he sported at the next meeting).


End file.
